It is a heart wrenching fact of life, fact of life, that nothing new can come without something old passing away first. And in many cases, it is not simply taking off old clothes and putting new ones on. A part of your flesh must be torn out, a part of the structure of a building must be demolished, a page must be ripped out before a new one can be pasted in.
Without change we would not be human. We would not be happy. We would not be alive. Change is good. But when it happens, it is like a surgery, but one where all the anaesthetic has run out, and all you have to keep the pain at bay is half a shot of morphine and whatever you’re biting down on between your teeth. After, change is good. After, change is adventurous. After, it is easy to say, “Look where we were, and look where we are now. Aren’t we glad to have come this far?” But while it is happening, change hurts more than anything.
Change is ruthless. It is like a train without brakes. It does not stop or slow down so you can catch your breath first; it has no mercy for you, regardless of whether you are tired, or fed up, or grieving, or in pain already; regardless of whether or not you have recovered from the last train, this train surges forward, and it comes, ready or not.
I have no control. There is nothing to hold onto. I am not standing; God is holding me up. He is all the anchor I have, and sometimes I cannot see into the darkness ahead and below and above me. Sometimes all there is, all I can see, is the darkness, like a night without stars, and I only know He is there because I have to know it to move forward, or else cower in fear. Sometimes fear is the darkness and the darkness is fear, and He is my shield against it.
I do not know the future. I do not know tomorrow. I know this moment, this minute, this second. I know I am breathing. I know I am home and with my family, in this moment, with my cat lying beside me and my room a mess because I have enough clothes and books to make it a mess. I know I am healthy, in this moment – I know I can run, if I have to, and I can dance, if music plays. There is a hope deep somewhere in me that does not come from me, because on my own I can have no hope. But this hope, and this love, and this joy, is deep in me, and because it does not come from me I can trust it. I can trust Him.
This light is not from me. This is light of another kind. Darkness must always run away from light, but this is a light that the darkness doesn’t even understand. This light is like nothing else the darkness has ever seen. The darkness cannot understand it. It flees not only in fear but in chaos, in confusion; it cannot understand this light that burns with such loving, fearful might. He is the light, and the light is in me. I will walk in the light, as He is in the light, and then, although I cannot see ahead or above or below, I will know that I am walking on a road that has already been prepared. He is behind me and before me, and He has made the darkness His own covering, and so I do not fear it. I am not afraid. I will walk on, and I will overcome, by the blood of the Lamb.